


Harry Potter and the Phoenix Prophecy

by whikky



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Azkaban, Count of Monte Cristo-esque, Familiars, Magical Mentor, Patronus Charm (Harry Potter), Revenge, Surprise Characters - Freeform, Wards (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:36:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whikky/pseuds/whikky
Summary: The Battle of Hogwarts is over and the Dark Lord has fallen, but the Pureblood faction retains control of the government. With Lucius Malfoy as minister, Harry Potter has been tossed in Azkban for life. The Light may have won the battle, but they have lost the war. What happens next will hinge on the actions of the Phoenix.
Kudos: 2





	Harry Potter and the Phoenix Prophecy

* * *

**Trial of the Century Over!**

**Boy-Who-Lived Guilty!**

_In a decisive move, the Wizengamot, under the leadership of our esteemed Minister of Magic Lucius Malfoy, overwhelmingly voted to convict Harry Potter on multiple counts of treason and murder yesterday afternoon. The events following the so-called Battle of Hogwarts have been extensively covered over the preceding weeks, and the Boy-Who-Killed's trial was largely considered a formality. Long listed as undesirable number one, the DMLE received an anonymous tip and arrived in force with a complement of civic-minded citizens of good standing to Hogwarts to arrest Harry Potter for inciting rebellion. Refusing to surrender peacefully, Mr. Potter managed to murder, in cold blood, many noble members of our proud society. With the multiple lifes sentence in Azkaban now official, Harry Potter will be eligible for release no earlier than 372 years from now. Hopefully our society can now begin its recovery…_

Lucius Malfoy set the paper down on his desk. Looking around the opulent office of the Minister of Magic, he smiled smugly. It'd been a month since the battle that took his master. Not that he had much to complain about; Lucius Malfoy had still won in the end. Despite the death toll, the Pureblood faction still retained control of the government. And Malfoy had used that control to install himself as Minister. Already laws were being passed to relegate mudbloods and blood-traitors to insignificance. Soon, they would be little better than magical creatures in the eyes of the law.

"Minister Malfoy? Sybil Trelawney is here as requested," his secretary said through the enchanted mirror on his desk. It was a truly wonderful piece of magic that his staff had managed to appropriate and reverse engineer from the bag of tricks Potter had on him when he was arrested. Every department head in the Ministry now had one in their office.

Lucius quirked an eyebrow. "Thank you Miss Davis, send her in."

"Yes sir," she spoke, followed by the connection being cut. A moment later the door opened and in walked the disheveled form of the former Hogwarts Divinations professor flanked by two of his more sinister looking henchmen.

"Miss Trelawney, thank you for coming." Malfoy drawled in a cold, aristocratic manner.

Sybil Trelawney wasn't a sophisticated woman. She wasn't particularly brave. Miss Sybil Trelawney was more of a scatterbrained crackpot. She looked around the office she now found herself in with a distinctly confused air, as if she couldn't quite figure out how she'd gotten there. Her mannerisms were manic, skittish. She resembled a frightened and thoroughly beaten puppy more than a former professor at one of the world's premier magical schools.

Lucius cleared his throat in thinly veiled annoyance. She jerked her gaze away from the shriveled hand on the book shelf behind his desk and seemed to notice the other occupant of the room for the first time. She withdrew further into herself in obvious fear.

"Mr.… Mr. Malfoy. Minister. Sir," She mumbled.

"Do you know why I asked you to come here?" Pure malice dripped from his tone like honey.

Sybil Trelawney recoiled further and opened her mouth as if to speak, but only an undignified terrified squeak came out. She backed up a step, breathing heavily in terror. "I… I don't… I don't know…"

He took a step closer in obvious threat, but stopped abruptly in confusion.

Standing straight now, with her eyes rolled into the back of her head, her voice was hollow. Devoid of emotion or inflection. " _A phoenix rises… From the ashes of defeat he will visit vengeance upon all those that wronged him… The world as we know it will fall to ash… Whether it rises again or blows away in the wind will rest on the choice of one… The balance has been upset, the inevitable end comes to those who stand in the way…"_

Sybil slumped against her captors, looking exhausted before looking around wildly. Lucius hardly noticed, frowning as he was in thought. He had wanted to speak with the professor to finally learn the full contents of the original prophecy, purely out of curiosity. This, though, was beyond his wildest hopes. What could it mean though?

Looking up, he finally took notice again of the other occupants of the room. This would not do at all. Flicking his wand quickly into his hand he fired off three killing curses in the time it took to register the surprise in the eyes of his minions. Activating his mirror he spoke succinctly, "Miss Davis, have the Aurors come and clean up the mess in my office." Cutting the connection without waiting for a reply, he sat down at his desk to think about what he'd just heard.

_Who is the phoenix?_ He wondered. _Could it be the Dark Lord will rise again? Unlikely. Potter seemed sure of the Dark Lord's final death, though he couldn't put it past his former master to have one further trick up his sleeve. Could it be Potter himself? Perhaps. He'd have to escape Azkaban first. There are those who still supported him, but they will be rounded up with time. And Draco seemed sure that Potter was a mediocre wizard at best. Not much of a threat in any case._ Pausing, Lucius stroked the end of his cane in contemplation, completely unaware of the bodies being removed from his office. _I could be the phoenix in this case. We were defeated at Hogwarts, but I came out on top. Rising from the ashes of defeat so to speak. And I have been visiting vengeance upon all of my enemies. Yes, that fits best I think. Now to decipher the rest…_

* * *

Azkaban Island is a dreary place. Sheer cliff faces battered relentlessly by the tumultuous waves below. Most of the island is utterly impassable save for a small dock and a steep staircase carved directly into the stone face of the adjacent rock wall.

The air on the island is oppressive. Its weight is a heavy thing that would begin to leach away hope even without the many hundreds of dementors slowly swirling in the air above like dark clouds. The chill immediately seeps directly into the bones, breaths frosting with every exhale.

The Aurors dragged Harry Potter from the small boat onto the dark brown, water-stained dock. The rotten planks looked as though they'd fall into the bay at any moment, but magic must had held them together. Before he had a chance to look around at the island that would be his new home, he was shoved roughly from behind.

"Climb the stairs, Potter," sneered Draco Malfoy. The pompous arsehole was wearing what had become almost a uniform for the Aurors these days: black dragonhide boots, fingerless dragonhide gloves, black pants that looked suspiciously like they were of muggle military make yet clearly enchanted, and a black dragonhide vest over a loose fitting dark green button-down shirt. All of this was covered by a comfortable looking black dueling cloak that trailed to below the knees. The Malfoy money was clearly being used to to its best effect since the uniforms were functional, stylish, and extremely intimidating.

After another push, hard enough this time to cause him to stumble, Harry began the slow climb up the stone staircase. Harry was worried about falling over the edge since there was no railing and the steps were unnecessarily narrow. He briefly looked down at the churning water below and his gut clenched involuntarily in fear.

"What's the matter Potter, scared?" Draco laughed, the two goons that had followed him since first year, Crabbe and Goyle, predictably laughed along. Harry just grit his teeth, ignoring the jibe, and continued climbing.

Eventually they reached the top, and Harry stared at the building that would be his home until the day he died, or until he managed to escape. Gulping silently, he continued walking forward at yet another rough push from behind.

The massive stone fortress is an ugly, blocky thing that covers most of the flat surface of the island. There are no windows to mar the flat surface of its walls, no towers or buttresses. The stones that make up the island prison are perfectly aligned, leaving grooves too small to fit even a fingernail. The only minor imperfections are the frost creeping along the stone edifice and the massive iron door that is the prison's only entrance.

The frost continues along the maze of hallways inside the building. The feeling of dread, of hopelessness, increases as does the concentration of dementors the closer you come to center of the prison. The chill increases as well, until it's all you feel. Until you forget completely what it ever felt like to be warm. The cold lives under your skin, freezing your bones and joints and muscles, needles poking every cell of your body almost like the _Cruciatus_ , but so much more unrelenting.

His cell, by order of the Minister himself, was as close to the center of the labyrinth as possible. The cold, damp stone floor leeches the warmth from his very bones, and by itself would be enough to cause the young man to shiver.

Arriving inside the prison, they came upon a cadre of guards. The dementor's assault had already begun, so Harry had little desire to hear what was being said. It was taking nearly all of his energy just to stand upright. Eventually though, the guards grabbed him by the arms and began marching him deeper into the prison while Draco and his goons turned to leave.

"Wait," Harry rasped. He hated the sound of his voice. He hated the smirks on everyone else's face as the savored the effect the prison must already be having on him. He held silently onto the small victory though as everyone stopped to listen to what he had to say. "I just want you to know, Draco. Someday, I will escape this place. And when I do, I'm going to kill you. Just thought you should know." Then he grinned as maliciously as he was able, which felt more like a grimace if he was being honest. By the paling features of Draco's face, he was at least somewhat successful.

A punch to the gut brought his victory crashing down around him, however. He nearly puked on the smooth stone floor. Draco walked right up to him and grabbed him hair, yanking his head up until Harry was looking into the livid face of his childhood nemesis.

"You're going to die here Potter. Not yet though. Oh, no, not yet. You must suffer first. And you will, that is a promise," Draco grinned triumphantly, sure of his victory. Harry didn't give him the satisfaction, however. He just smirked in response, as though he knew some great secret that Draco had yet to learn. Draco's grin morphed slowly into a scowl, and he punched Harry yet again in the stomach. This time, Harry did puke.

* * *

Curled up in the corner of the cell, covered by a dirty, threadbare blanket and nursing the pain in his stomach and ribs, Harry Potter was surely going to lose his mind if he hadn't already.

Hope is a funny thing. It's fickle and dependent. It's the last bastion a man has to withstand just about any onslaught. For a man like Harry Potter, to whom tragedy clings like the damp blanket currently covering his shaking form, hope is all that's left. And when that tiny spark of hope is inevitably extinguished, what will remain of the would-be hero of the wizarding world?

_A beautiful young mother begs for the life of her child before a bright green light fills the room…_

The memories are brutal. Plucked directly from his mind, cherry picked to cause the most damage, running like a horror movie nonstop through his damaged psyche.

_A massive serpent chasing him through a forgotten chamber beneath an ancient school of magic…_

His own mind has been turned against him. The cold. The damp. The stone digging into his back. But it's the memories, the assault of every negative thing he has ever experienced, the knowledge that he'd failed and so many had died. So many will yet die.

_Meaty fists striking his slight frame. So many occasions where he was just a little too slow. His cousin Dudley and his gang of hooligans grinning cruelly down on him as he's beaten almost daily…_

It's the memories that cause him to shiver. In pain or self-loathing or guilt. Or all of the above. There's enough of it to go around.

_Sirius falling through the Veil, surprise permanently etched on his face. Tonks and Lupin, lying side by side. Peaceful in death. Fred, leaving behind a brother who will forever be lost without his other half…_

So many dead. The dementors remind him, on a never ending feedback loop, of every single one. Every face. And they are all his fault.

_Tom Riddle in the Chamber. Voldemort in the graveyard rising from a cauldron. Voldemort firing a killing curse at him in the Forbidden Forest…._

Most of the memories cause him to whimper or moan piteously. Some cause him to cry for everything he'd lost and all the things he'd never had.

_A redhead promising safety and sanctuary with the only family he'd ever known. Being cursed in the back as soon as he'd turned…_

The betrayal still stung bitterly. He'd known Ron was a prat at times. Jealous of everything he didn't have. Taking extreme offense at any perceived slight. Ron was his first friend, his best friend. But it wasn't until he woke up in a Ministry holding cell awaiting trial for murder that he finally realized Ron was never a good friend. Shivering from the cold, from the impotent rage, and the sobs wracking his body, Harry screamed until his throat was raw and then just moaned piteously into the chilled dungeon air.

* * *

"Harry Potter, my new favorite prisoner," a high-pitched girlish voice spoke from the hallway. "Oh, this will be such fun."

Delores Umbridge practically waddled into the room, all garish pink robes and toad-like, evil smile. She hadn't changed at all. This was the warden of Azkaban?

Harry remained silent, and didn't even have the energy for a proper glare.

Umbridge appeared to not even notice his displeasure as she gesture to the two guards who had entered the cell with her. She was practically vibrating with barely repressed giddiness, a manic gleam in her eyes.

Harry was hauled up off the floor and his wrists were secured to the manacles dangling off of chains from the cell's low ceiling.

"You are going to be here such a long time, and we are going to have such fun together. Isn't that exciting!" Umbridge giggled, clapping her hands girlishly. "So, here's how the game works. Every year, on your anniversary, we like to come down to visit and give an extra reminder to our residents of their place. In your case, however, I don't think I will be able to resist visiting you more often than that."

Harry knew that he hadn't been there a year yet. Had he?

"Oh, I can see the confusion in your eyes. Poor dear. Yes, it is true that you haven't been here yet for a year, but I couldn't wait any longer!" Harry hadn't thought it possible, but somehow her smile had grown wider. "Oh where to begin, where to begin? I know! _Crucio!"_

Harry bit down hard to prevent the scream from escaping as every nerve ending in his body was set on fire. Compared to a cruciatus from Voldemort, this felt like a mild slap. But even with her pitiful magical power, the cruciatus was still a formidable weapon of torture. Despite his best efforts, his eyes began to water and a whimper escaped his throat.

"Oh, that won't do. That won't do at all," Umbridge remarked, frowning.

"You call that torture? I've been crucio'd by Voldemort you fat fucking bitch," Harry laughed, emerald eyes blazing beneath his sweaty hair. "Compared to him, you are no-"

" _CRUCIO!"_ Umbridge screamed, cutting him off. Speaking as he was, he didn't have the benefit of biting down to keep his jaw locked to prevent screaming. His world narrowed until all he felt was pain. He was being burned alive, inside and out. His bones were being ground into dust while his organs were boiling. Nothing existed outside of the white hot agony and his every nerve sending emergency signals to his brain that every part of his body was taking catastrophic and irreparable harm.

He didn't know how long he'd been under, nor did he know how long since the curse had been lifted when he realized that he was still screaming. His body shaking, his chin resting against his chest, he opened his eyes to find himself covered in blood. His own.

"I so love this part," she simpered, stepping closer to his shaking form and looking up at him with a gleeful grin. "I find that the torture curse works oh so much better with an assistant, or two in this case."

Large swaths of his skin were hanging limply, exposing raw layers beneath. Blood was practically pouring from the wounds. He also saw large bruises forming over large portions of his body. Looking up with only his eyes he could see Umbridge's 'assistants' with bloody hands and bloodthirsty grins.

"Don't look so glum Potter," she said in a tone that was mockingly close to comforting. "The fun has just started."

* * *

It was hours later, or perhaps days, when Harry finally clawed his way back to full awareness. His first coherent thought was something along the lines of _ouch._ His entire body ached. Even his eyelids felt bruised.

"How are you feeling?" a man across the hall asked from his cell.

Harry responded with the most coherent response he was capable of, but in reality was nothing more than a soft groan.

"Then you feel approximately how you look. Umbridge was particularly vicious. I'm assuming there is a history," he stated more than asked. Harry hadn't the energy to respond, and it didn't seem like the man expected one. "We must have lost the war then, since you are here. Shame, that."

Harry cracked open his eyelids to gaze at the man, a question in his eyes that he hadn't the energy to voice. It seemed he was understood somehow because the man continued speaking.

"You are Harry Potter, yes?" At Harry's barely perceptible nod, he continued. "Thought as much. I've heard many things about you, of course. If you are here, Voldemort must have won."

"He's…dead…" Harry rasped, wincing as even that small bit of speech tortured his raw vocal cords.

The man thought for a moment. Harry took the opportunity to study him. He appeared slightly older than middle age, gaunt, with shaggy dark hair that was greying throughout, a long unkempt beard hiding sunken cheeks, and sunken eyes that belied a fierce intelligence. Even as unwell as this place had made him, he still stood tall, proud, his square jawline clenching as if physically chewing over the information to solve a problem.

"So, despite the victory over the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters retained control of the government. Well, that is unfortunate. Alright then, nothing for it but to escape, you up for it?" the strange man asked confidently and cheerfully. Harry thought for a moment, not because it was a hard decision, but because he was so battered physically, mentally, and emotionally that it took his brain longer to process the man's words than he would have liked. When he did though, he tried to give a confident nod but instead his head just lolled forward on a neck that had no strength to support the movement. The man grinned anyway. "Excellent. Let's get started then."


End file.
